It was sure Madog had sensed something, when at last they had met up again in the woods. At the sound of her name being called, she and Morency sprang apart, and she had moved with speed to dress herself. He had seemed as eager as she to pretend it had not happened, to hide the traces of their intimacy. Like two children caught at mischief and conspiring to keep the secret, they swiftly and silently righted themselves. Then she had looked at him, saying nothing but praying silently that he would not shame her before her men.

That was nearly a week ago, and today she stood in her best dress, in the court of King Edward, waiting to meet with Robert de Vere. She and her mother had decided that de Vere was best placed to act as ally here at court, a man who was friend to the king but had no love for Morency. More important to Gwenllian, de Vere was a friend to her father despite whatever their past political differences may have been. Her father had spoken well of the man and de Vere, for his part, had always shown great courtesy to Eluned. After her father had left on Crusade, her mother had not gone to court again. Gwenllian had never thought to come.

It was strange, and luxurious. There was the same filth as in any other large town she had ever seen, and the keep was no more or less impressive as Ruardean, or those of Gloucester or Hereford. But she had never thought she would listen to a Welsh bard in this most English of gardens, singing of Branwen the fair, who was trapped across the sea. Branwen was saved, only to end her days in grief. Soon the bard would reach the end and sing Branwen’s lament: “Woe to me that I was born, two fair islands have been laid waste because of me.” Once she was saved, that is how Branwen’s story ended: in grief and despair.

It is how all stories of women end. Gwenllian was beginning to understand why. She was beginning to see that she herself could not be saved from what was happening to her.

In that moment in the woods, with her weakened mind half consumed with wanting more of his touch, and half consumed with panic at the sound of her approaching men, she had stared at him helplessly. She stood dumbly, waiting to see what would happen next, never thinking he would take her long dagger from his belt and hand it to her, then nod at the extra sword he had claimed as his own. She had followed his direction, picked up the sword and called out in Welsh to Madog. All the while, Morency watched her.